


Please Have Snow and Mistletoe

by minervamoon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Holidays, Jasmine Cottage (Good Omens), M/M, Mistletoe, Snow, Snowball Fight, Snowdog, Snowmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervamoon/pseuds/minervamoon
Summary: Aziraphale wants to go to Tadfield to check on rumors that Adam still has his powers, on Christmas Eve.  What is a demon to do but tag along?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33
Collections: Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange





	Please Have Snow and Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sivan325](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivan325/gifts).



> Written for the GO Events Good Snowmens gift exchange.
> 
> Edit: Oh my goodness! In my excitement to post I completely forgot to thank the lovely chewb for beta'ing this for me.

“Tell me again why we’re on the M25 on Christmas bloody Eve, Angel,” grumbled Crowley as the traffic crawled along. His body was a tense coil that ran from his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel to his foot itching to bear down on the accelerator. He didn't like being on the M25 anymore. It used to be one of the achievements he was most proud of, but now it was yet another reminder of the day he nearly lost everything.

“I told you, it’s snowing in Tadfield,” replied Aziraphale, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “It’s not supposed to be snowing; and when Newton called me about it, he said that was one of the strange phenomena he noticed while researching back in his Witchfinder days. And Anathema said as much as well. So, I thought it best we go investigate in case Adam still has his powers.”

“So he’s making it snow for Christmas. Hardly something befitting the Son of Satan, Destroyer of Worlds, Dark-” Crowley stopped himself and shook his head. “Sorry. Force of habit. My point is, is this something to worry about?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to check and it not be than not and find out it is?”

“I’d rather be back home,” said Crowley under his breath. He didn’t add that home was a dusty, blessedly unburned bookshop with a couch and two blankets that smelled of old pages, good wine, cocoa, and something inherently angelic. Crowley had barely left the bookshop since their trial. He felt on edge any time he wasn’t there; when he didn’t know what was going on. Luckily Aziraphale hadn’t figured it out, or he just didn’t mind him being constantly underfoot.

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale and bit back a groan. His bottom lip was turning out in the beginnings of a pout, his eyes widening in that far too adorable plea they did. “Alright alright! Put that away. I’m driving, aren’t I?”

Their exit finally came up and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief to be off the M25. Fewer vehicles, more speed, less chance of spontaneous combustion.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. His voice was soft and warm and it caused the last of Crowley’s tension to melt away, even as he grumbled a token protest at being thanked. Aziraphale wanted to see snow, so Crowley would get him to the snow. That’s how things worked with them. Always had, always would.

The closer they got to Tadfield the more Crowley started to think Aziraphale might have a reason to worry. The weather had been cold and dreary, overcast and wet, but all that had turned into fluffy white flakes that were falling in a manner that was downright merry. Crowley didn’t know how snow could fall merrily, but if any snowstorm was capable of doing it, it was this one. And it was collecting fast; supernaturally fast one might say. Crowley didn’t know how long it had been falling, but the more they drove, the thicker the snow was on the roadside and the road. Crowley knew they could get back to London if they tried, but soon no human was going to be able to drive in this.

“Going a bit overboard, isn’t he?” chuckled Crowley.

“Children like snow,” said Aziraphale, looking very pleased with being right. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling back at him. “I’ve always been rather enamored with that ability of children. To look at something like snow and decide it was a toy.”

Crowley’s mind drifted back not too many years to another snowy day and a dark-haired boy who laughed and smiled so as they piled up snow for a snowman. His throat was a little tight as he mumbled a soft, “Yeah.”

By the time they arrived in Tadfield, Crowley had shaken off the melancholy nostalgia. He parked the Bentley in front of a familiar-looking cottage where a group of children was playing, though there were many such groups up and down the row of houses nearby. The snowfall had lightened to wafting flakes just as they reached the edge of town and the whole little hamlet looked very Dickens. Crowley was glad he’d forgone his usual attire, “in deference to the season” as Aziraphale would say, and gone with a thick woolen coat, black obviously, and a red cashmere scarf today. Aziraphale was...Aziraphale and hadn’t made a single change save adding gloves to the mix. Crowley knew those gloves well, but at least those memories’ sharp edges were finally almost filed away.

Crowley got out of the car and turned towards Aziraphale, leaning against the roof of the Bentley. “Alright, Angel. We’re here. How do you want to go about this? Just walk up to the Anti-”

Crowley’s words were cut off by a cold chill running down his back. Said cold chill had been caused by a snowball landing at the back of his head, right above his scarf. It immediately began to melt and trickle ice water down his spine. He jerked at the sudden icy touch and spun, hissing, ready to put the fear of Crowley in whoever had dared to throw a snowball at him.

Three children in the group just off from them stopped their playing and pointed to the fourth who just waved and smiled, his hat flattening down his mop of blond curls. “Have you come to join our game?” he called.

Crowley was still deciding whether he should continue his threatening glare or rein it in given he was hissing at the Antichrist when Aziraphale spoke up, “I suppose we have. Shall we, Crowley?” Aziraphale smiled back at him as he walked around the car, lit up by what sun was reflected off the snow, and Crowley couldn’t come up with a single argument against it.

“Good,” said the Antichrist. “Can you help? We made a snowman just fine, but I was trying to make him a snowdog and it just isn’t working.” He motioned to a mound of snow next to a taller, more traditionally shaped mound complete with a carrot for a nose.

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand, warm and strong, give his back a gentle nudge. “Go on.”

“Me?” hissed Crowley even as he stepped forward.

“I certainly wouldn’t know where to begin,” answered Aziraphale. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. Fine. He could play the distraction while Aziraphale did whatever it was he thought he needed to do here. Crowley fished out gloves that had not been in his pocket a moment before and put them on.

The snow immediately soaked through his trouser legs as he knelt next to the attempted snowdog. The Antichrist, Adam was his name, wasn’t it? Strange coincidence that. Adam stood over him, eager anticipation on his face. Crowley took a deep breath and got to work.

He didn’t really know where to begin either. He just started packing in the snow, trying to make it more or less dog-shaped. The hellhound, as if sensing his thoughts, made itself known to the point of being an utter nuisance, but he was a good model to go off of. He had to be the shape of dog Adam liked, no other excuse for such a small hellhound, or for it being quite so yippy. 

Crowley smoothed down the back and formed the shape of a tail and front legs and feet, a sitting dog at his master’s side. At some point he needed more snow and found a ball of it already made and waiting, passed to him by the children, with Aziraphale watching over it all, a fond smile on his face. Crowley attached the ball, moulding it into shape. A smaller ball to form the muzzle, rocks for the eyes and nose. Then the ears. 

He was trying to get the grooves on the inside-out ear right when he heard a very, very familiar voice. “Wow, that’s wicked!”

Crowley spun around and stared up in shock. Warlock was watching him, his smile fading to confusion. What was Warlock doing here?

“D-do I know you?” asked Warlock.

“We’re going to have a snowball war now,” announced Adam, cutting off anything Crowley might have said. Not that he had anything to say beyond a flurry of disjointed syllables.

“But we’re not an even number,” said a child so wrapped up in layers that the only thing visible was a pair of thick glasses.

“Oh, I’m more than happy to sit this out,” said Aziraphale, politely edging out of the line of potential fire and over to the cottage. Bastard, thought Crowley fondly. He was about to call him back when the Antichrist spoke again.

“Alright then,” said Adam. He locked eyes with Crowley. “You, him,” he pointed to Warlock who was now watching Aziraphale with that same expression of vague confusion, “and Wensleydale are a team. Me, Pepper, and Brian the other. And _don’t_ aim at my dog, either one of them.”

Crowley tried to catch Aziraphale’s gaze, but the angel had already retreated inside the safety of the cottage. Glasses must be Wensleydale because that child trudged over to Crowley and Warlock. The other three ran off a ways and began shoving snow up and packing it down into a vague wall shape. Crowley sighed and muttered under his breath. “How do I get roped into these things?”

“We should build our own fort,” said Wensleydale with a hesitant but pointed voice.

“Er, yeah, sounds like a plan. Can you even move like that?” came out of Crowley’s mouth unbidden.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m no good at throwing anything anyway.”

“Then you’re on munition duty, make the snowballs. Warlock and I-”

“How do you know my name?” asked Warlock, making Crowley flinch.

“He’s a demon,” replied Wensleydale casually as he squatted down and got to work on the snowballs. “The other one’s an angel. They helped us save the world last summer.”

“Do you just go around telling everyone?” asked Crowley, forcing his voice to remain neutral.

“Not everyone. The adults wouldn’t believe us anyway. We still need a fort.”

Crowley gave a resigned sigh and began pushing snow into shape. Warlock moved to help. They worked silently, side by side for several seconds before Warlock spoke. “You never answered my question, either one of them.”

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek. A traitorous part of him whispered ‘what could it hurt? He already knew the worst part.’ But he just couldn’t find it in himself to say it.

“You might as well. When I googled you, I never got one actual human, but I did get a lot of hits about demons and pagan goddesses,” continued Warlock.

Crowley bit harder, tasting copper in his mouth. His eyes burned behind his sunglasses.

“Nanny?” asked Warlock in a soft, anxious voice; the same voice as after a bad dream when he was small and would beg to be held. Crowley’s resolve broke.

“Yes, child,” said Crowley, his voice shifting easily to the familiar lilt of Nanny Ashtoreth. “It’s me.”

The next thing he knew, he was being hugged. Warlock squeezed him tight around the middle, cheek pressed against his shoulder. Crowley was hugging back just as hard. When had that happened?

“I missed you,” said Warlock, his eyes shut tight against tears.

“Missed you too.”

Ummm,” said Wensleydale, ruining the moment. “Do you two not wanna play anymore?”

They didn’t get to answer because snowballs began to pummel their poorly constructed protection. Warlock let Crowley go with a whoop and picked up two of the balls Wensleydale had made, chucking them for all they were worth at their enemies. Crowley laughed out loud and joined him. 

For the next several minutes the two sides filled the air with volley after volley of snowy projectiles. He didn’t know how long they’d been at it until a sharp whistle cut through the ruckus. Everyone turned to see Anathema at the stoop of her cottage.

“Time!” called Anathema, holding up her hands in a ‘T’. “Come in and warm up. We have cocoa.”

Crowley grinned and patted Warlock on the shoulder with a snow-caked, gloved hand. “Wanna see Francis again?”

Warlock’s already bright smile beamed at that. “Yes!” He hurried into the cottage, passed Anathema who only watched with mild amusement.

“So that’s the other Antichrist,” she said as Crowley got to her.

“Aziraphale told you?” asked Crowley, not entirely surprised.

“And Agnes. We never could really figure that one out, but now it makes sense.”

Warlock was already hugging Aziraphale, who looked very surprised by it. Crowley removed his outerwear and hung it up, a subtle miracle removed the snow from his boots, and then walked over to the angel. Aziraphale looked over at him then frowned. “Really?”

Crowley looked down at himself and the black jumper that read, ‘Be Naughty, Save Santa the Trip,’ and laughed. He’d forgotten he was wearing it. Warlock smiled up at Aziraphale but then was called away by the siren call of cocoa and biscuits being supplied by Newt.

“This was somehow your doing, wasn’t it, Angel?” asked Crowley as he and Aziraphale stood off to the side watching the children.

“I might have had a bit of a hand in it,” admitted Aziraphale. “Anathema told me they were shutting down the airbase the day after Christmas, something about security problems. And then someone decided, since the Dowlings had been present at the opening, that they should be there for the closing.”

“That someone being you.”

“No, but I am the one that put it in Harriet’s head to come down on Christmas Eve and have their holiday here since it’s where Warlock was born.” Aziraphale had been watching the children, but now turned to Crowley. “Happy Christmas, my dear. I know how much you missed him.”

Crowley gurgled out a few noises in denial but finally gave up, cheeks flushed. “You missed him too,” he shot out in retaliation. He looked away from Aziraphale’s warm, knowing smile and caught sight of Anathema. She cast her eyes pointedly up. Crowley felt his heart stop. He looked up to see a merry sprig of green with white berries dangling from the ceiling just above them. “Bless.”

Aziraphale followed his gaze up. “Oh my. It appears as though the kissing bush has caught us.” 

Crowley began to stammer out platitudes that they didn’t have to, it was a silly human tradition, because he thought that’s what Aziraphale would want to hear. But then Aziraphale took a step closer and placed his hand over Crowley’s heart which had kickstarted back to life at about ten times normal speed. Aziraphale looked up at him, those wide eyes hopeful. Crowley never could deny Aziraphale anything. He cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands and brought their lips together. It was a soft, chaste kiss, not asking for more than the angel was willing to give. Then Aziraphale’s arms came up around him, pulling him close. He smelled of his cologne, of old paper, good wine, cocoa, and something inherently angelic. He smelled like home. He was home. And he kissed like he was offering that to Crowley forever and always. Crowley kissed back and was welcomed home.


End file.
